The Award of Justice; Or, Told in the Rockies: A Pen Picture of the West

Lyle laughed merrily; “I’m not going to tell a single plan of mine; you will all find when we reach the place, what a mountain picnic means.”

“But can we not even know where we are going?” asked Rutherford, with a tragic air.

“You would not know if I should tell you,” responded Lyle, “we are going to Sunset Park.”

“Sunset Park!” they exclaimed, “where is that?”

“Is it in any way connected with the Sunrise mine of recent fame?” inquired Houston.

“No,” replied Lyle, “it is across the lake; you remember the landing I showed you among the rocks? You follow the broad trail leading up the mountains, and you will come to a beautiful plateau on the west side, as level as a floor,–but I’m not going to tell you about it, you must first see it for yourselves.”

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, while Houston still stood talking with Miss Gladden and Rutherford, the graceful form of Lyle suddenly darted past them, her face nearly concealed by an enormous sunbonnet.

“Lyle, you gypsy, where are you going?” called Miss Gladden.

For answer, she turned and waved her hand with a merry laugh, then ran, fleet-footed as a deer, to the edge of the lake, and unfastening one of the little boats, was in it and rowing out upon the lake as dextrously as a professional oarsman, before those watching her could even guess her intentions.

“Great Cæsar! but that girl can row!” exclaimed Rutherford, with all the enthusiastic admiration of a newly graduated collegian.

“Where is the child going?” asked Houston.

“Probably to the picnic ground,” said Miss Gladden, “but what for, I cannot imagine.”

The sunbonnet was waved saucily in the air, and then instead of steering for the landing place as they expected, the boat suddenly disappeared around a corner of the rocks, in the opposite direction, while there came ringing out on the air, in mocking tones, the words of the old song:

“I saw the boat go ’round the bend.”

No one saw Lyle when she returned, a couple of hours later, and not even Miss Gladden knew that she was in the house until she made her appearance at the dinner table, with a very demure face, exceedingly pink fingers, and wearing an air of deep mystery that no amount of joking could diminish.

After dinner, Lyle made two or three trips across the lake, carrying mysterious baskets and dishes. In one of these journeys she was intercepted by Miss Gladden, who was lying in wait for her, and who, tempted by the delightful aroma, lifted the cover of one of her dishes.

“Strawberries!” she exclaimed, “and wild ones! Where did you get them, Lyle? They are the first I have seen out here.”

“They are the first that have ripened,” she replied, “I went over to the gulch for them this morning, but don’t say anything about them,” she added, as she stepped into the boat with her treasures, “I’m going to cache them until they are needed.”

“Going to do what?” said Miss Gladden.

“Going to ‘cache’ them, hide them away among the rocks,” she replied laughing, and, taking the oars, she was soon speeding across the lake.

It was a merry party that started out two or three hours later. Houston carried the banjo, as Rutherford had his precious camera and a lot of plates, having declared his intention of immortalizing the occasion by taking a number of views for the benefit of their posterity. Miss Gladden had her guitar, and to the great astonishment of the gentlemen, Lyle appeared, carrying a fine old violin. It was Mike’s, which she had borrowed for the occasion at the suggestion of Miss Gladden, and in reply to the expressions of wonder from the gentlemen, Miss Gladden said:

“This is the surprise I planned for you, but wait till you have heard her; I never heard her myself until a day or two ago.”

With song and laughter they crossed the lake, and having reached the landing place among the rocks and fastened their boats, proceeded up the mountain. Here they found a flight of natural stone steps, at the head of which a broad trail wound around the mountain, until, having passed a huge, shelving rock, they suddenly found themselves on a plateau, broad, grassy, and, as Lyle had said, “as level as a floor.”

Groups of large evergreens afforded a refreshing shade. Underneath the trees an immense, flat rock, covered with a snowy table-cloth and trimmed with vines and flowers, gave hint of some of the more substantial pleasures to be looked for later. At a distance gleamed the silvery cascades, their rainbow-tinted spray rising in a perpetual cloud of beauty. Far below could be seen the winding, canyon road, while above and beyond, on all sides, the mountains reared their glistening crests against the sky.

For a time they gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the scene, till, at Miss Gladden’s suggestion, the tuning of the various instruments began, interspersed with jokes and merry, rippling laughter. Amidst the general merriment, Houston, with an air of great gravity, produced from his pocket the different parts of a flute, which he proceeded to fit together, saying:

“When you were speaking last evening about the music for to-day I had entirely forgotten the existence of this flute, but after we went to our room, Ned persisted in practicing on that unmusical instrument of his, and in searching in my trunk for a weapon of self defense, I found this, and it answered my purpose so well then, I brought it with me to-day.”

The music was a success, and it seemed as though the musicians would never grow weary, but when, at Miss Gladden’s request, Lyle sang “Kathleen Mavourneen,” her sweet, rich tones blending with the wild, plaintive notes of the violin, her listeners again seemed entranced by the witchery of the music, as on the night when first they heard her sing, and were only aroused by the sound of hearty, prolonged cheering from the canyon below.

Looking over the edge of the plateau, they discovered a party of about a dozen people, in a wagon drawn by six horses, who had stopped to listen to the music, and give their panting animals a chance to rest. Behind them was a line of three or four pack mules, laden with tents, cooking utensils and bedding.

“A camping party!” exclaimed Lyle, “the first of the season; they are on their way to Strawberry gulch.”

On catching sight of the group above on the plateau, the ladies below began waving their handkerchiefs, and the gentlemen were loud in their cheers and calls for more music.

“Give them another song, Miss Maverick,” said Rutherford, “that is a decided encore.”

Once more raising her violin, Lyle sang “The Maid of Dundee,” and never did song or singer meet with nobler applause, for the cheers from below in the canyon were joined with those from above on the plateau, and were echoed and re-echoed among the rocks, the last reverberations dying away and mingling with the roar of the distant cascades.

As the camping party seemed in no haste to continue their journey, Miss Gladden with the gentlemen then came forward to the edge of the plateau, and all joined in singing a few familiar songs, some of them accompanied by the guitar and the violin, after which, the party in the canyon, with much waving of hats and handkerchiefs, and many cheers in token of their appreciation, passed on their way.

After this little episode, a gypsy fire was kindled, and in a short time the rock table was spread with a dainty feast; chicken sandwiches, mountain trout, which Lyle had caught in the morning, delicately broiled, and the sweet, wild strawberries served in various ways, all equally tempting and delicious. After the feast, Houston proved himself an adept upon the violin, and he and Rutherford gave a number of college songs, and old plantation songs and dances, accompanied by the violin and banjo.

At last, as the long, gray twilight was slowly deepening, and the stars silently marshaling their forces in the evening sky, the two boats drifted across the lake, only guided, not propelled, by the oars, and the air, for a while, was filled with song. As they slowly approached the shore, however, the singing gradually ceased. For a while Rutherford talked of the coming of his brother; then he and Lyle were silent, but from the other boat, at a little distance, came low, murmuring tones. They had just entered upon the first pages of that beautiful story, old as eternity itself, and as enduring; the only one of earth’s stories upon whose closing page, as we gaze with eyes dim with the approaching shadows of death, we find no “finis” written, for it is to be continued in the shadowless life beyond.

Rutherford was thinking of some one far away, under European skies, and wishing that she were present with him there, to make his happiness complete.

And Lyle, with that face of wondrous beauty, yet calm and inscrutable as that of the sphinx, had any power as yet passed over the hidden depths of her woman’s nature, and troubled the waters? Were those eyes, with their far-away look, gazing into the past with its strange darkness and mystery, or striving to pierce the dim, impenetrable veil of the future? No one could say; perhaps she herself was scarcely conscious, but as they landed, Miss Gladden noted the new expression dawning in her eyes, and as the friends and lovers separated for the night, each one avowing that day to have been one of the most delightful of their whole lives, she wound her arm about Lyle in sisterly fashion, and drew her into her own room. Lyle, as was her custom, dropped upon a low seat beside her friend, but was silent.

“Are you looking backward or forward, to-night, Lyle?” asked Miss Gladden, taking the lovely face in both her hands, and gazing into the beautiful eyes.

Lyle’s color deepened slightly, as she replied:

“I hardly know; it seems sometimes as if I were looking into an altogether different life from this, a different world from that in which I have lived.”

“How so, my dear?” inquired her friend.

“I scarcely know how to describe it myself,” she replied; then asked abruptly, “Miss Gladden, do you believe we have ever had an existence prior to this? that we have lived on earth before, only amid different surroundings?”

“No,” answered Miss Gladden, “I can see no reason for such a belief as that; but why do you ask?”

“Only because it seems sometimes as if that were the only way in which I could account for some of my strange impressions and feelings.”

“Tell me about them,” said Miss Gladden, interested.

“They are so vague,” Lyle replied, “I hardly know how to describe them, but I have always felt them, more or less. When I read of life amid scenes of refinement and beauty, there is always an indefinable sense of familiarity about it all; and since you and Mr. Houston have been here, and I have lived such a different life,–especially since we have sung together so much,–the impression is much more vivid than before; even the music seems familiar, as if I had heard it all, or something like it, long ago, and yet it is utterly impossible, living the life I have. It must have been only in my dreams, those strange dreams I used to have so often, and which come to me even now.”

“And what are these dreams, dear? You have never before spoken to me of them.”

“No,” Lyle answered, “I have never spoken of them to any one; they have always been rather vague and indefinite, like the rest of my strange impressions and fancies; only they are all alike, it is almost precisely the same dream, no matter when it comes to me. There is only one feature that is very clear or distinct, and that is a beautiful face that is always bending over me, and always seems full of love and tenderness. Sometimes there are other faces in the background, but they are confused and indistinct,–I can only recall this one that is so beautiful. Then there is always a general sense of light and beauty, and sometimes I seem to hear music; and then it is all suddenly succeeded by an indescribable terror, in which the face vanishes, and from which I awake trembling with fright.”

“And you say you have had this dream always?” queried Miss Gladden.

“Yes, ever since I could remember. I don’t seem to be able to recall much about my early childhood, before I was five or six years old, but these dreams are among my earliest recollections, and I would sometimes awake crying with fright. After I met Jack, and he began teaching me, my mind was so taken up with study, that the dreams became less frequent, and for the last two or three years, I had almost forgotten them, till something seemed to recall them, and now it occurs often, especially after we have had an evening of song. I know I shall see that beautiful face to-night.”

“But whose face is it, Lyle?” questioned Miss Gladden; “surely, it must resemble some one you have seen.”

Lyle shook her head; “I have never seen any living person whom it resembled. That, together with all these strange impressions of which I have told you, is what seems so mysterious, and leads me to half believe I have lived another life, sometime, somewhere.”

Miss Gladden sat silently caressing the golden head. Her suspicions that Lyle had had other parents than those whom she knew as such, were almost confirmed, but would it be best, with no tangible proof, to hint such a thought to Lyle herself? While she was thus musing, Lyle continued:

“What seemed to me strangest of all, is, that though I cannot remember ever seeing a living face like the one in my dream, I have seen what I believe is a photograph of it.”

“When? and where?” asked Miss Gladden quickly, hoping to find some key to the problem she was trying to solve.

“A few weeks after your coming, and at Jack’s cabin,” Lyle replied.

“Did Jack show you the picture?”

“No, I do not know that he intended me to see it, but it was lying on the table that evening; I took it up and looked at it, but he did not seem to want to talk about it. I have never seen it since, and he told me that until that evening, he had not seen it for a long time.”

“And did you recognize it as the face of your dreams?”

“Not then; it seemed familiar, but it was not until after I reached home that I remembered my dream, and from that time, the dream returned. I see the face often now, and it is just like the picture, only possibly a little older and sweeter.”

“And you have never spoken to Jack about the picture since?”

“No, for I have not seen it, and he has never alluded to it. He admitted that evening it was the picture of some one he had loved dearly, and I have since thought perhaps he would rather I had not seen it.”

Miss Gladden was silent; her old theory regarding Jack’s being the father of Lyle, seemed to her now more probable than ever. She believed the picture to be that of Lyle’s own mother, who, it seemed evident, had lived long enough that her child remembered her in her dreams, though unable to recall her face at other times.

Very tenderly she bade Lyle good-night, determined that her next call at the little cabin should be made as early as possible.

CHAPTER XXIII

Houston and Rutherford, on retiring to their room, after the breaking up of the picnic party, donned their slippers and smoking jackets, and having lighted their cigars, and slipped into the easiest possible attitudes, prepared to devote the next few hours to a confidential tete-a-tete. The next day Rutherford would start on his journey to the coast, and naturally there were many topics of mutual interest to be discussed on this, their last night together for a number of weeks.

Houston felt that the time had come for taking Rutherford into his confidence regarding his own work and plans, for it was evident that Van Dorn had posted his brother, and Rutherford would soon learn the truth from him, if in no other way. For a while Rutherford talked of his brother.

“I knew he was intending to come west this summer, and I expected to meet him in some of the cities along the coast, but I supposed he would return by one of the southern routes. I’m awfully glad he has decided to come back this way,” he added, “for I would enjoy it of course, to come around and see you again, and then, I’d like to have you meet Mort. He and I are not a bit alike, but I think he’s a splendid fellow, and I think you and he will like each other.”

“I haven’t a doubt of it, Ned,” Houston replied, with an air of confidence rather surprising to his friend; “in fact, I think I will be as glad to meet him as you yourself;” then, as Rutherford’s eyes expressed considerable wonder at such unexpected cordiality, he continued:

“I’ve been thinking, for some time, Ned, that the friendship you have shown for the low-salaried clerk and bookkeeper whom you met on your way out here, deserves some degree of confidence in return, and this evening seems to be the best time for giving you a little explanation regarding the man whom you have called your friend for the last few weeks.”

“Why, certainly, if you wish,” Rutherford replied, with slight embarrassment, “but then, it isn’t at all necessary, you know; that is, unless it is your choice, for your salary or your position doesn’t cut any figure with me. Whatever your circumstances may be, I know as well as I need to know that you are a gentleman; anybody can see that, and I have told my brother so.”

“I am much obliged to you, Ned,” Houston answered, with difficulty restraining a smile, “but I am going to begin by saying that your brother knows me a great deal better than you do.”

Rutherford’s face expressed so much astonishment, that it resembled nothing so much as an exaggerated exclamation point. Houston continued:

“I have never in my life known what it was to have an own brother, but the one who for many years has held that place in my heart is Morton Rutherford, and I think he will tell you that of all his class mates, there was not one with whom he was upon more intimate, confidential terms, than Everard Houston, of New York.”

“Everard Houston! Great Scott!” exclaimed Rutherford, springing to his feet, “why I remember that name well; he was Mort’s best friend. You don’t mean to say you are the same? Why, I thought you said you were from Chicago!”

“I was from Chicago, when you met me,” answered Houston, smiling, “but I had come from New York less than ten days before.”

“Well, by Jove!” said Rutherford, walking up and down the room, “I am floored completely! If you had once said you were from New York, I might have suspected who you were, but Chicago! and then,” here he stopped and gazed at his friend with a comical look of perplexity, “why, Everard Houston was the nephew and adopted son of W. E. Cameron.”

“Certainly,” assented Houston.

“Well then, what in thunder,–if I may ask the question,–are you doing out here with this confounded Buncombe-Boomerang mining company?”

“That is just what I wished to tell you to-night,” Houston replied, “but we must talk low, for walls sometimes have ears,” and placing a chair for his friend near his own, he proceeded to tell him of his object in coming out to the mining camp, of the work which he had accomplished, and of his plans for what yet remained to be done. Rutherford listened with much interest, deepening into admiration for his friend.

“And now,” said Houston, in conclusion, “you will see why I could not very well reveal my identity to you when we first met. I knew you as soon as I saw your card, but I was a stranger in this part of the country, with a certain role to play, uncertain of success, and, not knowing what difficulties or obstacles I might meet, thought there would be less danger of unexpected complications, if you thought me just what I appeared to be.”

“You thought about right, too,” said Rutherford, “for I’m awfully careless about anything of that kind, always putting my foot in it, you know; and I don’t see how you ever could come out here, a perfect stranger, and carry everything along as smoothly as you have. Well, I remember I was awfully mixed there on the train, when you told me you had come out here to work for that company, for I thought all the time that if you were not a gentleman, then I never saw one; and it’s lucky I did have sense enough to think of that, or I might have made a confounded chump of myself.”

“You would have cut me, would you?” asked Houston, laughing, “I was looking out for that, and would have considered it a rich joke if you had.”

“Rather too rich, I should say,” said Rutherford, coloring. “Mort has always ridiculed me for that sort of thing, and told me I’d make a precious fool of myself some day; I don’t intend to be snobbish, though he says I am, but that’s just my way somehow, unless I happen to like a person. Mort is different from me; he will get along with all sorts of people, you know, but I never could.”

“You are all right,” answered Houston, “you are a little conscious of your blue blood now and then, but as you grow older you will think less about that, and you have as good a heart as Morton, when a person is fortunate enough to find it.”

“Say,” said Rutherford, suddenly, “if you and Mort were class mates, you must have known Van Dorn.”

“Certainly,” said Houston, smilingly watching the blue coils of smoke from his cigar, “and when I first saw him with the Winters party, I knew my little game was up, unless I got my work in very expeditiously,” and he described the little pantomime which took place in the office shortly after Van Dorn’s arrival, much to the amusement of Rutherford, who exclaimed:

“Great Scott! but you fellows played that game well, no one ever would have dreamed that you had known each other.”

Houston then told of the plan for Van Dorn’s coming in a few weeks, and later, for the arrival of Mr. Cameron with Lindlay.

“Oh,” Rutherford exclaimed, “now I see why Mort is so anxious to get here at just about a certain time; he knows all about this, and wants to be in at the death himself; well, that suits me exactly. But say, old fellow, isn’t this going to be a pretty nasty piece of business for you about that time?”

“It would be if any one should get hold of this before the right time comes, but I do not anticipate any trouble, because I intend to be so guarded that nothing regarding my work will be known or suspected until my uncle is here, and we have them securely trapped.

“It will require a cool head and a level one to carry this thing through, and accomplish what you have undertaken,” said Rutherford thoughtfully, as he took one or two turns up and down the room, “and I guess you are the right one for the work. Van Dorn will be just the one to help you, too, he’s pretty cool and quick-witted himself, but I should think you would both need a third party, somebody who has been on the ground for a long time and who understands all about the working of these things.”

“It would be of great assistance to us, and I intend to keep a look-out, and if it is possible to find such a person, and one whom we can trust at the same time, I shall secure him.”

“Well, I’m sure I wish you success, and I shall be anxious to hear from you while I’m gone, and know how you are coming on.”

They smoked silently for a few moments, then Rutherford said:

“By the way, Houston, how about the congratulations I told you some time ago I was ready to offer whenever the occasion required; are they in order now? or shall I reserve them until my return?”

“They are in order whenever you choose to offer them,” Houston replied quietly.

“Indeed! well, I’m glad to hear it, I thought it about time. I congratulate you most heartily, and tender you both my sincerest wishes for your happiness. I tell you what, old fellow, I think you’ve found a splendid woman, and I think, too, that you are wonderfully suited to each other. Seems strange, doesn’t it? to think of a pair like you two, finding each other in a place like this!”

“It is rather unusual, I admit,” said Houston.

“Yes,” added Rutherford, “taking into consideration all the surroundings, and the why and wherefore of your coming here, I think it borders on the romantic.”

A moment later he asked, “Does Miss Gladden know what you are doing out here?” Houston shook his head, in reply.

“Doesn’t she know who you really are?”

“Not yet,” Houston answered, “no one out here knows any more about that than you did two hours ago.”

“Whew!” said Rutherford, “she will be slightly surprised when she finds that old Blaisdell’s clerk and bookkeeper has a few cool millions of his own, won’t she?”

“I hope she will not object to the millions,” said Houston with a smile, “but I have the satisfaction of knowing that they were not the chief attraction; she cares for me myself, and for my own sake, not for the sake of my wealth, and I am just old fashioned enough to consider that of first importance.”